


i want to do all the things your lungs do so well.

by zolotolev



Series: Beyond Good and Evil. [1]
Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms
Genre: Character Study, One Shot, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-06
Updated: 2016-03-06
Packaged: 2018-05-25 04:31:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6180277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zolotolev/pseuds/zolotolev
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>or, erik watches christine and "hates himself; it's as a simple as that."</p>
            </blockquote>





	i want to do all the things your lungs do so well.

He hates himself; it's as a simple as that. There is no grand poetic justice to it and no beautiful soliloquy in real life to make it romantic. He is physically repulsive. He has acted out repulsive things in the past. But he has never hated himself more than now. That tremor through his spine and tightening of his stomach while watching someone so beautiful makes him want to die.  
If he dies, she will be alone - more alone than she is now. It isn't just. Someone so soft and beautiful should never know the acute pain of being alone.  
He tells himself he watches her for her own protection. The city is large and people are cold and vicious and only work towards their own gains. He has been alive and seen enough to know the horrors people are capable of and the extent of their apathy. But he could never expect her to know that and would never wish ignorance away from her. So he watches her.  
He tells himself this.  
But he is repulsive. And he wonders how it would feel to warm his bone hands in the curve of her, to dip his uncovered face in the sweetness of her hair, how her breath might sound quickened and sighing softly and uttering his name. He imagines her pressing against him in the alleys he frequents now. He imagines her never telling him to stop. He imagines tracing her cupid's bow with his tongue.  
And then he shudders and walks away. 

He learned to stop aching for human companionship long ago. His wretched mother was distant and cold and everything from that point on had been useless or a disaster. People are shallow and fickle and cruel. He shies away from daylight and crowds, a learned response from the glares or skittish glances. It isn’t difficult to conduct business through a third party or electronically, these days. It isn't painful to stay away.  
But there is something about her.  
She seems kind. From her sympathetic glances, to the furrow between her brows while she maneuvers the city, she seems compassionate and sincere. The music she makes is light and sweet. Her voice weaves through the darkness and pierces him. It sounds like humanity. 

His skin is covered in scars and ink. Rope marks on his wrists and ankles and neck. Knife wounds on his abdomen and back and legs. Whip welts and slashes on his back and the backs of his legs. There are tattoos on his hands and arms and chest. He knows there is a story behind each marking, whether they are consenting marks or otherwise, but the majority of them are hazy. He sees no purpose in conjuring these memories now. A lifetime of struggling and killing and avoiding being beaten and robbed has led him to the present.  
He can safely say he is living comfortably. He can focus on music without interruption and work at his own leisure. He has developed certain tastes that he can fully support. He diminishes his guilty conscious days at a time by donating mass quantities of money.  
He is anything but thankful.  
He would rather starve, and love, and be loved in return.

**Author's Note:**

> this is just a character study that i had tucked away for a long time as notes for an actual modern day au i've been erasing and restarting for months. title from 'every other freckle' by alt-j.


End file.
